


The Tedious Tunnels

by knockoutmouse



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discussion of gender politics, Fernald tries to be heroic, Headcanon: Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender is autistic, Healthy Relationships, Henchperson is called Rory, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Explicit Sex, Nonbinary Character, Olaf is abusive, Other, Secret Relationship, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-blaming, Supportive Partners, it backfires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-13 22:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14757086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Olaf and the theater troupe after the events of The Bad Beginning as they escape through the VFD tunnels. Tension builds. Olaf is angry and does not behave nicely toward his henchpeople. Fernald and Rory try to comfort each other afterwards.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A note on names: 
> 
> Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender: Rory  
> White-Faced Women: Jenny and Elvira  
> Bald Man: Arturo

It felt as if the theatre troupe had been sneaking through the network of underground tunnels for hours. 

Olaf strode ahead of the troupe, his mood seeming to become fouler and fouler as time went on, until the whole group had fallen silent. Arturo followed dutifully behind Olaf, with Jenny and Elvira scurrying in his wake. Fernald kept a couple steps behind the twins, and Rory slunk after him. Slinking was a good way of moving, Rory decided. Plus, it was slightly slower than sneaking, so it had allowed them to wind up at the back of the group, closer to Fernald, even if they couldn’t acknowledge each other under the circumstances. In a way, sometimes that made it more exciting, when their only contact could appear to be accidental touches—perhaps standing a little closer together than they had to, a hand or hook against the other’s shoulder as they passed, a private glance across a room full of villainous associates. Tonight, in the relative darkness and at the back of the group, the two of them were able to brush against each other, offer the occasional lingering touch of the other’s arm. 

Nobody actually knew how long they’d been in the tunnels, since there was no source of natural light, or, for that matter, any other indication of the amount of time that had passed. 

In the particular stretch of tunnel where they found themselves at the moment, moss grew on the damp stone walls, and a few inches of stagnant water lay on the floor. Most of the troupe splashed through it. Rory made their way to one side to avoid the unpleasant water. The ceilings, too, were lower than the other tunnels had been, and both Rory and Arturo had to duck their heads. 

“Are we almost there, boss?” asked Fernald eventually. 

“That depends on where you think we’re going,” said Olaf. He appeared to consider for a moment. “We could stay here until the _furor_ dies down,” he added, heavily exaggerating the pronunciation of the word. 

“Down here in the sewers?” said Jenny.

“With the crocodiles?” added Elvira.

“This is _not_ the sewer,” said Olaf severely. “This is a series of secret underground tunnels built by—an organization, many years ago. And there are no crocodiles here! That’s only an urban legend.”

“Or a metaphor for the cumulative ills of a society that increasingly sacrifices personal responsibility in favor of a morality governed by convenience and hedonism,” said Rory. 

In the following moment of silence, Rory quickly realized that the others did not find this the correct thing to say about crocodiles. 

Fortunately, Olaf had a foolproof method of glossing over such situations, a phrase which here means “simply ignoring any statement that he didn’t understand or care about.”

“Right! Carry on.” Olaf turned and began to lead the unhappy procession deeper into the tunnels. 

Fernald hung back and whispered to Rory, “Harlan Ellison?”

“Hmm?”

“The crocodiles,” he explained. “You were thinking of Harlan Ellison?”

“Oh. Yes,” said Rory, taking care to keep their voice low so that Olaf wouldn’t overhear the conversation. “Do you like Ellison?”

Fernald shrugged, a dark look passing over his features. “I used to. My— _stepfather_ ,” he said with a scowl, “and I used to have disagreements on the subject. One time he threw half of my library into the Stricken Stream. He said that Verne and Wells were the only sci-fi authors who had written worthwhile literature.”

“That’s terrible,” said Rory, “and totally ignores the contributions of Mary Shelley to the development of the genre. And literary gatekeeping is not a socially progressive stance, serving in fact only to maintain existing power structures in publishing and academia. And,” said Rory, adding it on quickly before they could forget the thought, “And. I’m sorry you didn’t have a good relationship with your stepfather.”

Fernald shrugged. “Forget it. It was a long time ago.”

Fernald never talked about his past life, before the troupe. Rory remembered that he’d mentioned a sister and a stepfather before, but he’d never really talked about them. It seemed like he didn’t want to. Rory had many questions about Fernald, but they kept them in their head. Like his family, his past, his accent—Rory didn’t even know where he was from.

They continued on in silence for some time, until Arturo banged his head against a low stone archway. He swore loudly, using several crude and vulgar expressions that shall not be reproduced here for the sake of decency.

“Such language!” gasped Jenny.

“How shocking!” added Elvira, although she didn’t seem very displeased by it.

“Bad form,” agreed Fernald. 

“I’m actually not even sure what a couple of those words mean,” said Rory. 

“Sorry,” said Arturo, ruefully rubbing his forehead. “I didn’t mean to swear in front of you ladies.”

“We’re sure you didn’t,” said Jenny kindly. 

“Heat of the moment,” agreed Elvira.

“Okay, but this is actually an example of benevolent sexism,” Rory pointed out. “The belief that women need to be shielded from obscenity more than men not only stems from, but also serves to perpetuate the infantilization of women by casting them as innocent, naïve, and in need of protection.”

“We’re not children,” agreed Jenny.

“Or innocent,” said Elvira. 

“Hey,” protested Arturo, “I’m an old-fashioned guy. What’s the matter with me trying to show respect?”

“Now, that’s also a good question,” said Jenny.

“This is a complicated subject,” said Elvira. 

Fernald quickly stepped in. “I think I can see where both of you are coming from,” he said. "Now that you point it out, it does seem like a double standard. At the same time, I have to admit that it feels sort of…extra wrong to use bad language in front of elderly ladies, even though that’s probably…what did you call it before? Social conditioning?”

“Would all of you cease your incessant bickering!” shouted Count Olaf, spinning around. “Need I remind you whose fault it is that we’re in this situation?”

“Violet Baudelaire, for not signing the marriage document properly?” said Jenny.

“Or Klaus Baudelaire, for his thorough and compelling legal argumentation?” suggested Elvira.

“The baby,” boomed Arturo, his deep voice echoing eerily around them, “for being too good at cards?”

“The Baudelaire parents, for their permissiveness in allowing their children to gamble at card games?” said Fernald.

“Isn’t it also partially our own fault for our hubris in drawing attention to our scheme instead of maintaining the façade of a legitimate theatrical production?” wondered Rory aloud. “In retrospect, that doesn’t seem like the most sensible decision.”

In an instant, Olaf had bounded back to Rory. He seized them hard by the arms and leaned in, his shiny eyes glinting malevolently. Rory froze completely, unable to react despite the revulsion they felt at being grabbed this way, especially by someone with Olaf’s lax attitude toward personal hygiene.

“ _Never_ ,” intoned Olaf, giving Rory a violent shake, “ _never_ insinuate ever again that my schemes are anything but flawless in design and execution!” Olaf punctuated the end of the sentence with another shake that slammed Rory back against the stone wall of the tunnel.

“Boss!” called Fernald, too loudly, and with a hint of what could have been panic in his voice. 

“ _What?_ ” snarled Olaf, whirling to face him. 

“I—uh—” Fernald floundered, then blurted out, “I had no idea that baby was so good at poker!” 

Olaf struck him across the face, the sound of the slap enormous and harsh in the sudden silence of the tunnel.


	2. Chapter 2

The troupe all stared at Fernald and Olaf, frozen in place like butterflies pinned under glass. 

“If you fail me again,” said Olaf, his voice terrifyingly calm, “ _that_ will seem like a picnic.”

He turned on his heel and marched onward. The troupe stood stock still. 

“ _Are you coming or not?_ ” bellowed Olaf. 

Jenny and Elvira, startled into action by his shout, started off after him. With an uneasy look back at Fernald, Arturo turned and followed. 

“Are you all right?” whispered Fernald urgently. “Did he hurt you?” 

Rory couldn’t move. Everything hurt overwhelmingly in a way that was not quite physical pain but also not quite _not_ , and they knew Fernald needed them because he'd just been slapped by Olaf and of course Rory wanted to comfort him and they _couldn’t move_. 

And Fernald wouldn’t understand, would think they didn’t care or were being dramatic or self-centered— 

“We have to go,” Fernald was saying. “We have to go with the others. It isn’t safe.” 

Rory had to speak, _had_ to, somehow. 

“ _Please_ ,” said Fernald. “Come on. He might do something terrible.” 

“I’m—sorry,” they managed in a whisper, even though the words sounded distant, disconnected, as though someone else was speaking them. Anything more was out of the question; forcing out those two words had taken far too much energy. 

“Look,” said Fernald, as if reaching a decision. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see what choice I have. I’m not leaving you here,” he said fiercely. 

With that, he slipped his arm through Rory’s, gently, and led them after the others, keeping some distance. Gliding along this way, weightlessly, like a doll being carried at someone’s side—it was better, at least, than standing frozen. Rory wanted to hold on to Fernald, but they couldn’t even do that. 

“It’s all right,” Fernald was whispering, softly, soothingly. “I’ve got you.” 

And the horrible thing was that it _was_ helping, but Rory knew they should be the one helping Fernald, not the other way around. And that in turn made everything worse. 

After a little while, Rory found that they were able to squeeze Fernald’s forearm in a gesture of reassurance. 

Before much longer, the troupe had apparently reached their destination: Arturo was following Olaf in climbing up a metal ladder set into the wall. Overhead, the screech of metal suggested the lifting of a manhole cover. 

Jenny and Elvira began the climb next, Arturo helping them out of the tunnel and up into the street. 

Fernald looked uncertainly at Rory. 

“Will you be able to?” he asked. 

Rory nodded, let go of Fernald, and began to climb the ladder. Their hands were shaky against the rusted metal, and it was hard to focus, so it took them a long time to reach the top. When they did, the twins each offered a hand to help Rory out of the tunnel. Grateful, they held onto them—the two small women were much stronger than they had guessed. 

Even with the support, their balance ebbed a bit as they took the last step up onto the pavement. Fernald emerged just a moment later, and toed the metal cover back into place. 

It was completely dark now, perhaps two or three in the morning. 

“Go away,” directed Olaf. “Split up. Go home. You’ll hear from me soon." 

Olaf himself quickly disappeared down a dark alley, and the rest of the troupe began to disperse through the empty streets. 

Arturo departed and was soon absorbed by the shadows, and Jenny and Elvira started off in the opposite direction, the click-skitter of their high heels over the cobblestones reminiscent of a large, many-legged insect. 

“Your place?” suggested Fernald. Rory nodded. They still couldn’t speak, but since the others had left, they felt a lessening of the tension that had seized them. 

It wasn’t far. Soon, the two of them were safely in Rory’s small but cozy apartment in the city’s Beverage District. 

Rory sank down on the sofa, wedging themselves into the corner and pulling up their knees. That was a little better. And it helped, being back here now, in a familiar place.  
They picked up one of the numerous throw pillows heaped on the sofa, stroking its satiny fabric and tracing along the lines of its embroidered pattern. 

Fernald had sat down too, next to Rory but giving them space, and again they felt a twinge of guilt. An aching tightness gripped their throat at the first thought of speaking again. Rory closed their eyes and focused on their breathing for a few moments, until the feeling had begun to fade away. 

When Rory looked at Fernald again, he was looking at them in concern. A bruise had started to swell over his cheekbone. 

“Are you okay?” asked Rory quietly. Their voice sounded hoarse when they spoke. And they knew it was a terrible, stupid question. Of course Fernald was not okay. Nobody would be, under these circumstances. 

“I’ve had worse,” said Fernald wryly. 

“That isn’t the point,” murmured Rory, and reached up to cup Fernald’s cheek. 

Fernald relaxed into the touch, and turned his face to kiss Rory’s palm. The sensation set their heart fluttering, and Rory couldn’t suppress a shaky sigh. 

They drew Fernald closer to them, and the two settled back onto the sofa, Fernald’s back to Rory’s chest, their arms around him. 

Rory kissed Fernald on the temple. 

“He hit you,” they said. 

Fernald shrugged. “It was worth it.” 

“What? Why?” Rory was mystified. “How could that possibly be—” 

Fernald tipped his head back against Rory’s shoulder to look up at them. “Because he didn’t do it to you.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Rory’s arms tightened around Fernald, and they closed their eyes. 

“I don’t deserve it,” they said quietly. “You trying to protect me like that.”

Fernald sat up and turned to face Rory. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” they said miserably. “You stopped him and he hurt you and I couldn’t even do anything to help.” 

“You’re helping now,” Fernald pointed out. “Besides, not everything has to be completely equal all the time. Everyone has things they can’t do sometimes.”

“I guess that’s true,” Rory admitted, and kissed Fernald on the temple. 

Fernald closed his eyes and relaxed back against Rory before his expression became serious again.

“Besides,” said Fernald, “He was hurting you too.”

“Not physically. Well,” Rory admitted, “maybe a little.” 

“Let me see,” said Fernald, though his tone made it a gentle request.

Rory looked as if they were going to argue, then acquiesced and unbuttoned their shirt, revealing the lacy pink camisole they wore underneath. Fernald reached up to slide the shirt down off Rory’s shoulders, exposing the fresh bruises on their arms from where Olaf had grabbed them. 

“Oh,” said Rory in surprise. 

Fernald took Rory in his arms and held them close. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I let him get away with this.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Rory, trailing their fingertips down the uninjured side of Fernald’s face. “He never would have hit you if I hadn’t—”

“Shh,” Fernald interrupted. “No more of that. It’s no good blaming ourselves.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment. It wasn’t a bad silence, but Rory didn’t like it, not after they’d been quiet for so long before when they’d longed to speak.

“Can I do anything to help?” asked Rory. “How about a back rub?”

“I’ll never say no to that.”

Rory took their time, working the tension out of Fernald’s neck and shoulders until he was totally relaxed, sinking back against them and giving soft, contented sighs. When Rory leaned in closer and kissed Fernald on the side of the neck, he gave a rather different sort of sigh.

Rory was contemplating whether to do it again when Fernald turned around and pulled them into a kiss. Easily, without haste, clothing was removed between kisses as the room grew warmer. They made love slowly, moving against one another, giving soft caresses, kissing each other’s bruises. Afterwards, they lay contentedly on the sofa in a half-slumber until the glow of the rising sun crept through the windows.


End file.
